(gap: 2s) I grew up in the 1950s, in one of the new housing estates that sprang up like neat little boxes on the edges of Scottish towns after the war. The rows of pebble-dashed council houses, each with its own tiny patch of garden and a narrow path leading to the front door, seemed to stretch on forever beneath the wide, grey sky. Though these homes were a great improvement on the cramped, draughty tenements my parents had known as children, they were still rather plain and chilly, especially when the wind howled in from the North Sea and rattled the windowpanes. Life was not always easy. Most families, including ours, had very little money, and every penny was carefully counted, each coin clinking in the old biscuit tin my mother kept on the top shelf, reserved for bread, milk, and the occasional treat.
The stories on this site remind me of what now seems a simpler and more innocent time, though it was also a time of real hardship. In those days, it was quite usual for parents to discipline their children with a firm hand, and I cannot say that any of us were the worse for it. In fact, perhaps we were the better for it, for I am sure I was a much better-behaved child than some of the children I see today, who sometimes ignore their parents and speak to their elders without proper respect. There was a certain order to things, a sense that everyone knew their place, and that children, especially, must learn to listen and obey.
My parents were never unkind, nor were they especially strict, but they believed it was their duty to correct me when I misbehaved. They themselves had received much sterner discipline as children, both at home and at school, and they considered it their responsibility to guide me and teach me right from wrong, sometimes with a sharp reminder that young children could easily understand. In those days, everyone in the estate looked out for one another, but there was also a strong sense that children must know their place, especially when times were difficult and tempers could be short. I remember the kindly Mrs. MacGregor from next door, who would peer over the garden fence and call out, “Mind your manners, young man!” if ever she heard a raised voice or a door slammed in haste.
My father worked very long hours, often leaving before dawn to catch the bus into the city, his boots echoing on the frosty pavement as he disappeared into the misty morning. He was a quiet man, with gentle eyes and rough, work-worn hands, and though he loved me dearly, it was mainly my mother who kept me in order. She had some experience in this, for she had a younger sister – fifteen years her junior – for whom she had already acted as a mother. My grandfather had died quite young from a heart attack, and when my mother was only twenty and her sister just five, their own mother also passed away, leaving the family in a state of sorrow and confusion.
Naturally, the care of the little orphaned girl fell to my mother, who became almost a second mother to her sister. They lived together, along with their two brothers, in their parents’ old house, a place filled with memories and the faint scent of coal dust and lavender polish. My mother was the housekeeper for all of them until she married, rising early each morning to light the fire, scrub the steps, and prepare porridge for breakfast. This did not happen until she was thirty-two, owing to separations caused first by the war, and afterwards by my father’s work. Even after moving to the new estate, the memory of those hard years lingered, and my mother never forgot what it was to go without. She would often remind me, as she mended my socks by the firelight, that “waste not, want not” was a rule to live by.
I was born when my mother was thirty-five, so her sister – my aunt – was by then twenty. She still lived in the old house, but the two sisters remained very close and my aunt was often at our home in the estate. Thus, she went from having a second mother in her sister to being a second mother to me, and in my earliest memories she is always present, bustling about the kitchen in her flowery apron, helping to prepare meals, reading me stories in her soft, lilting voice, bathing me in the old tin tub, and tucking me up in bed with a gentle kiss on the forehead. In those days, with money scarce and the wind whistling through the gaps in the windows, family meant everything. The warmth of their love seemed to fill the little house, making even the coldest nights feel safe and snug.
The task of disciplining me, however, fell entirely to my mother, and although she was mostly very gentle, she would sometimes give me a firm spanking to remind me of my manners. In the estate, everyone knew everyone else’s business, and a child’s misbehaviour was quickly noticed and remarked upon by the neighbours. I remember the feeling of embarrassment when Mrs. MacGregor would shake her head and tut if she saw me sulking or dragging my feet on the way to school.
I particularly remember one occasion, when I was about eight or perhaps nine, when I was being very disobedient by refusing to go to bed. The evening had drawn in, and the little sitting room was filled with the golden glow of the fire, casting flickering shadows on the walls. My aunt, as so often, was present, sitting in her favourite armchair with her knitting, while I, though already in my pyjamas, was still full of energy, running about, laughing loudly, and no doubt being extremely troublesome. The house was small, the walls thin, and my mother was always aware that the neighbours could hear every sound. I remember the sharp scent of coal smoke and the gentle ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece as I darted from chair to chair, giggling and making a dreadful racket.
At last, my mother lost patience with me. Her cheeks flushed and her eyes narrowed, though there was still a twinkle of affection in them. “If you do not go to bed now,” she warned, her voice calm but firm, “I shall give you a sound spanking.” “You should indeed!” said my aunt, setting down her knitting with a smile. “After all, you used to spank me when I was his age – and look how well I turned out.” There was a note of mischief in her voice, and I stared at her in astonishment, unable to imagine my grown-up aunt ever being naughty.
My mother laughed, and I stopped in astonishment. It had never occurred to me that a grown-up like my aunt could have been put over my mother’s knee and spanked, just as I was. “You are quite right,” my mother replied, her eyes sparkling. “It never did you any harm.” The two sisters exchanged a knowing glance, and I felt a curious mixture of dread and fascination at the thought of what was to come.
With that, she took me firmly by the arm and, with a determined air, sat herself down on the old wooden chair by the fire. Without further ado, she lifted me and placed me squarely over her lap. My heart thudded in my chest as I felt the cool air on my pyjama-clad bottom. My mother’s hand was steady and resolute. She raised it high and brought it down with a sharp smack. The sound rang out in the chilly little sitting room, echoing off the bare walls. She delivered the first smack, then a second, and a third, each one stinging more than the last. I counted them in my head, my legs kicking in protest. Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten – each smack a clear message that my behaviour had crossed the line. My mother did not pause, but continued until she had given me a full twelve smacks, each one firm and deliberate, as if to impress upon me the seriousness of my disobedience. The lesson was unmistakable: actions have consequences, and respect for one’s elders is not to be taken lightly. My cheeks burned with shame and my eyes filled with tears, but deep down I knew I had brought it upon myself.
“No, no!” I cried, my voice trembling. “I shall be good! I shall go to bed! Please let me go!” But my mother kept a firm hold and continued spanking, her face set with loving determination. My aunt began to laugh heartily at the sight of my legs kicking and my small bottom on full display, but my mother did not stop until the twelfth smack had landed. The sound of their laughter mingled with my cries, and though I felt terribly sorry for myself at that moment, I could not help but notice the warmth and affection that filled the room.
Suddenly, my aunt left the room and returned moments later, holding an old wooden hairbrush. “Here you are,” she said, handing it to my mother with a mischievous grin. “This is what you used to use on me – see if you can make his bottom as red as you used to make mine!” The sight of the hairbrush made my eyes widen in alarm, but my mother only laughed, her laughter ringing out like a bell.
“Your bottom was a bit bigger then – and a good deal bigger now,” my mother teased, giving my aunt a playful swat on her ample rear. At this, both women burst into helpless giggles, their laughter echoing through the little house. I seized my chance to jump up, pull up my pyjamas, and dash up to bed, my lesson well and truly learned. As I snuggled beneath the heavy blankets, my bottom still tingling, I could hear their laughter drifting up the stairs, and I felt a curious sense of comfort, knowing that I was loved, even when I was naughty.
From that day onwards, my aunt always referred to it as our ‘shared hairbrush’ – and it made several more appearances as my mother’s spanking implement of choice. On one memorable occasion, when I had been especially naughty and spoken rudely to my aunt, my mother called me into the sitting room, sat down with the hairbrush in her hand, and told me that I must learn to speak politely. She placed me over her knee and gave me six sharp smacks with her hand, followed by six more with the hairbrush, each one stinging and making me promise to behave better in future. The hairbrush, though it looked fearsome, never seemed to hurt as much as I expected – perhaps because it became a symbol of our shared family history, the hardships we had overcome, and the love we all shared in that little Scottish estate where everyone had so little, but family meant so much. Even now, when I think back to those days, I remember not the sting of the hairbrush, but the warmth of the fire, the sound of laughter, and the feeling of being safe and cherished, no matter what mischief I managed to get into. And so, I learned that discipline, when given with love, is not something to be feared, but something to be understood – a lesson I have carried with me all my life.
